


The Day is Gone

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, post-Indian Wells 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because he still remembers everything and most days he's content, but he knows that he used to be more than this. He used to dream and smile and love so much more than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day is Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Roger & Stan lost the Indian Wells doubles final to Malisse & Dolgopolov.

He didn't really expect to win the whole thing, what with this being the first time they've played a competitive match together in who-knows-how-long (two years, five months, and twenty-one days) and, besides, Stan is old enough to know better by now. He's turning twenty-six next week, he's been married and now he's not anymore, he has a beautiful baby girl with dark eyes and darker hair, and he knows not to expect happy endings from this bitch of a world. Life is more than good enough, most days; the rest of the time, he's got Peter to shake him out of his funk. Why shouldn't he be content? He's living his dream. And yeah he's got his regrets, but they're what make the good things even sweeter, he tells himself, so he tries to take it all in stride. 

Still, it's hard to swallow the bitterness at the back of his tongue and the disappointment crowding the air from his lungs. One mini-break. One mini-fucking-break. And—okay, so it was more than just a mini-break, it was a string of bad service games and worse net play, but still. There's a shuttered sort of sadness in the set of Roger's lips, the same look that Stan remembers from years ago (hours ago), and he remembers breathing life into that emptiness, remembers how, once, on a rainy night in Beijing—but that was before everything. 

Because all these things happened, life happened, and when life happens you just have to go with it. Life is tennis and family and chasing your dreams and looking the other way when the love of your life turns out to be otherwise. Life is listening to Roger talk about his daughters and lying in bed alone at night contemplating the little Homer statuette beside the alarm clock blinking red. If only he could be as content, as fulfilled by donuts and TV and jokes that don't even make sense in French. But that's life on a page, and life in 2D is only that; the third dimension is what makes everything pop. 

"What are you thinking about now?" Roger asks, nudging Stan's arm. "You've got that look on your face."

Stan thinks about trying to explain everything going through his mind and gives up before he even begins. "It's just my face," he quips instead. Roger smiles. It's a start.

He reminds himself that this could easily have been much much worse, because he has his bad days, and so does Roger, and Stan should really be grateful that they've both been pretty good this week. He was in a good place in his head, good enough to finally corner Roger and just ask him if he wants to play doubles, because they need to get into practice for Davis Cup and for the Olympics, and Roger—thank god—was in the mood to say yes. 

So it's been mellow, and mellow is nice. Mellow is great considering all the awkward silences and passive-aggressive avoidance of these last few years. Mellow is pretty fucking fabulous when Peter basically forced them to go grab a late dinner together, after the press conference and after Stan got changed and Roger came back sporting a dark button-up and a hint of redness around his eyes. 

"Get over it together," Peter said, shooing Stan out of the locker room. "It'll be good for you. You spend too much time with me anyway. We're starting to look alike."

So that's how he got here. It's not entirely clear why Roger decided come instead of spending time with his family, with Mirka and his beautiful baby girls (better consolation than any sushi or conversation, in Stan's opinion), but here they are, and Roger just smiled, so Stan figures things are going pretty well. Standards are for people who still have something to lose.

"When's your flight tomorrow?" Roger asks, breaking into his thoughts.

"Early in the morning," Stan answers. He shrugs. "Wasn't really expecting to be sticking around this long, honestly. Thought I'd be done before today, and left some time to go golfing." Except then they'd actually made it to the doubles final (he expected they would, that's why he booked the tickets for Sunday, rather than Saturday) so golf is going to have to wait.

"I think I'll catch an afternoon flight," Roger says after a bit. "We could go in Miami, if you want. I keep meaning to go to this one club but always end up forgetting, you know? It's like something keeps coming up, like the whole universe is conspiring to keep me away from it."

Stan says, "You usually go golfing in Miami?" and tries to keep himself from wondering why in hell Roger is asking him now, when they've never played before, never even talked about it until this week when suddenly, at 5-2 in the second set against Lopez and Nadal, Roger decided that this changeover break was be the optimal time to discuss golf courses. Stan tries to remember the last time he touched a golf club. Andy Murray comes to mind, for some reason, but that can't be right, because usually they hit the go-kart circuit. Besides, Murray's been too busy mooning over Djokovic these last few months to be of much use as a friend. But it's only fair, Stan thinks, as he himself wasn't much of a help when Andy and Kim had their little experimentation with "let's not be a couple anymore."

Which is not to say that Stan and Roger were ever a _thing_. Except they were. Sort of. Maybe. He really wants to believe that it was all just in his head, because then at least he'll eventually get to the point where he realizes how stupid it all was and just get on with his life—but what he knows says otherwise, because what he knows is that Roger used to be happy around him, happier than Stan knew what to do with at times, and when Stan kissed him in Beijing he meant it and it was _real_ and continued to be until everything sort of went to hell.

Now they both have kids, and Roger is still married, and they're talking about golf over a late dinner after losing Indian Wells in a championship tiebreak. 

"...used to be easier," Roger is saying. "Like, everything seemed simple and gas was cheap and you had all the time in the world. You know?"

Stan doesn't know, but he nods anyway. He drums his fingers against the table for a moment. "It's not the same, is it?" he blurts out. "Not like Beijing."

Roger shrugs. "Well, you can't win everything. I mean, we were still pretty great. Took out Rafa in the semis and all. I think we're in good shape for Davis Cup, and we'll be even better next year, to defend that gold medal in London."

It's not what Stan meant, but he can't bring himself to say otherwise. Nor does he have the heart to tell Roger that they're not going to win in London, there's no miracle this time, because once-in-a-lifetime moments are named that for a reason, and Roger is going on thirty. They're going to lose, bow out with the same quiet disappointment that Roger wears like armor on days like this, and that's how it'll end: Roger Federer, at the end of his long and illustrious career, will have one Olympic gold medal, won during the best summer of his doubles partner's life. 

It's true, Stan thinks, that you never know what you have until it's good and gone. Because he had no fucking idea, didn't have a clue as to what he'd actually lost that following spring until years later when he looked back and searched out the empty corners of his life and found Roger's name etched into every memory and hurt.

So yeah, he has some pretty bad days. Some days he has Alexia's picture in his wallet and Ilham's number in his phone and Roger—always Roger—on his mind. On the bad days he wants to take it all back, take back the intervening years, the betrayal he felt when Roger got married and the silence afterwards and the question in Ilham's eyes, the surprise and joy when he whispered, "We should have a daughter, she'll be beautiful." Those are the bad days; but the worst is when he knows he can't, knows he'll never go back to being the Stan who kissed Roger in the locker room and won a medal on belief alone, just as Roger will never see the podium in London, never sink to his knees in the trampled grass of Centre Court, dust and glory staining his tennis whites to gold. 

In moments of anger he wonders why not. Why _not_? If Melzer and Petzschner can win Wimbledon unseeded and the Ponytails can win Indian Wells 10-7 on one mini-break, then somewhere out there in the universe there must be a rule that says Stan and Roger deserve another shot at this. Another summer of miracles and smiles and Roger looking at Stan like he's the only thing that matters in the world.

He wonders where that Roger went. He wonders, because when he looked across the net at Dolgopolov and Malisse, even when down 1-3, they were always smiling. They were hitting the ball like nothing hung in the balance, win or lose, playing for the sheer joy of it and loving every minute they were on court together. Stan remembers that he was like that, too, once. He and Roger used to be like that, used to laugh and play and believe in miracles. Roger's eyes used to light up when Stan hugged him, his mouth curving into a smile as he hugged Stan back. 

Now, Stan touches Roger's elbow tentatively as they leave the restaurant together, and Roger doesn't even respond. Stan throws his other arm around Roger's shoulder in an embrace, and Roger pats him on the back, like a stranger would, and untangles himself with a quick smile, "See you in Miami, then."

Roger calls a cab. Stan takes the bus back to his hotel. 

He packs his bags before climbing into bed, throws out a few empty water bottles and the packaging on yesterday's wristbands, separating everything into what needs to go to Miami with him and what can stay behind. He's in the middle of stuffing a jacket into his duffel bag when his hand gets tangled in a lanyard, and he pauses. His credentials. Some of the other guys like to keep them, he knows Sam Querrey is a bit of a freak when it comes to collecting credentials, but Stan's never felt particularly sentimental about plastic and string. 

He rubs his thumb over his name printed in ink. It's just a piece of paper, weightless with meaning. Stan slips it over his head, asking himself what he's doing, hating himself just a little when he catches himself imagining a wider ribbon and a heavier weight against his chest. 

Because he still remembers everything and most days he's content, but he knows that he used to be more than this. He used to dream and smile and love so much more than this. 

He throws the lanyard into the discard pile and turns his face away. It's not real, and it's not even a passable substitute for second-best. He's sick of being okay rather than great, sick of wanting more and never getting there and knowing that he never will, because he had it once, and time is a one-way street. Some asshole insisted it's better to have had and lost, rather than never have at all, but on days like this Stan wonders if that's really true, if there is anything that's really worth being haunted forever by the memory of a perfection that you'll never, ever be able to retrieve.

(He'll pick up the lanyard in the morning and stuff it into his carry-on bag, because it's not that he can't move on, it's that he's been trying to find his way back ever since he left.)

He falls asleep to Simpsons reruns on TV and wakes up at 6:40 to Peter pounding on his door, yelling that if he doesn't get with the program soon he's going to miss his flight, time waits for no man, not even him.


End file.
